Desperation
by Beboppin' Betty
Summary: With Downton on the verge of bankruptcy and her marriage on the rocks, Mary is slowly unraveling. In the midst of it all she selfishly risks destroying her years-long friendship with the only person who's never let her down.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer - I own nothing affiliated to Downton Abbey

* * *

 **Christmas – 1937**

"They're here!"

This announcement was bellowed by Sybbie Branson from the great staircase in the foyer of Downton Abbey, and she thundered down the steps to engulf her aunt, uncle, and cousins in a tight embrace. Mary Crawley Talbot didn't witness the display; she only heard it from the library, and frowned slightly into her glass. "Granny's probably spinning in her grave," she muttered. "Toddlers have less energy than that girl."

"Be nice," Henry warned from behind his newspaper. Mary sniffed and turned back to the window. She wasn't annoyed with Sybbie, of course. Her niece's boundless energy was usually infectious, but Mary had had a black cloud over her head all day. She watched as Edith and Bertie's car was unloaded – box after box of gifts were brought into the house, and she heard her mother's excited voice join the clamour in the hall. Mary's fingers tightened around the cut crystal tumbler and she took a large mouthful of whiskey. Henry tossed the paper onto the sofa. "Come and say hello," he said, but didn't wait for her. She sighed and finished the rest of the whiskey, allowing enough time to pass that Henry would know she wasn't about to follow orders. She found her sister and brother-in-law passing their jackets off to Barrow, and Sybbie herding the rest of the children out the door.

"She insisted on taking them sledding before dinner," Cora explained. Mary was disappointed she would have to wait to see them and stiffly embraced her sister, kissing the air beside her cheek. Her greeting for Bertie was slightly warmer. Edith barely acknowledged the chilly reception and all but threw herself at Henry, to which Mary could scarcely resist rolling her eyes. Bertie shook Henry's hand and kissed Cora. "Where's everyone else?"

"Tom's taken Robert and the boys into town to have a look at the new Rolls we just got at the shop. It's a thing of beauty," Henry chuckled, eyes shining, and led Edith into the library and a discussion Mary couldn't have given a whit about – and hadn't, which was that day's bone of contention between them. She took a deep breath and forced a smile. "Bertie, how are things? Is your mother's health any better?"

"I'm afraid not, but she likes to pretend nothing's changed."

"Of course." Oh, how she loathed the small talk she was forced to endure at these gatherings. She longed to close the door behind the lot of them and make a dash for freedom. Barrow appeared at her shoulder, foiling her plan, and she cursed inwardly. "I'll have a glass of whiskey, Barrow," she said, deciding to make the best of it. She ignored the way Henry's nostrils pinched and joined her mother and Bertie, who were catching up on household news.

"Marigold's decided she wants to be a playwright." There was equal parts indulgence and pride in his voice as he spoke of his step-daughter. "I believe she's organizing a production for us this week."

Cora smiled. "Oh, delightful!"

 _Just fabulous_ , Mary's inner voice agreed, dripping with sarcasm.

He went on to extol the virtues of his other children, Peter and Clara, and Edith's magazine, and the estate, and everything was great, just great! Mary smiled sweetly. "What a fairy tale life you're living. I can't imagine how one functions amid such happiness." Cora shot her a quelling look. Mary ignored it. She ignored the stab of guilt over her attitude about her nieces and nephew. They were innocents, after all, and she truly did love them. She drifted over to Edith and Henry somewhat reluctantly and tried not to look too bored. Eventually Edith noticed and changed the subject. "How are things going here? I know you had some concerns about the estate the last time we spoke."

"Some concerns?" Mary scoffed. How lovely it must be to live in Edith's world. Taxes had gone through the roof, which itself needed serious repairs, they'd had two years of low yield from their crops, and no matter which way she looked at it the estate just wasn't bringing enough money in to sustain itself. As it was she'd had to sell her soul to avoid selling off acreage this past year. "Don't worry yourself," she patronized. "Tom and I have it in hand."

"Of course I worry," Edith replied calmly. "It is my home too."

Indignation flared up and Mary opened her mouth, prepared to remind Edith of exactly the way things were these days, when she felt the pressure of Henry's hand on her elbow. "I'm sure you and Bertie want to get settled before dinner," he suggested to Edith, who quirked a brow suspiciously but agreed. "Yes, it was a bit of a harrowing drive in the snow. Darling, shall we go up for awhile?" They left the room sandwiched together in hushed conversation. Mary caught enough to deduce they intended to take advantage of time alone without the children around, and when they giggled she felt another stab, and ignored that too.

* * *

"Anna, give us a minute, will you?"

"Of course, Mr. Talbot."

It was funny, Mary thought as Anna gave her a look in the mirror. The only difference between herself and her maid was an accident of birth. They'd seen each other through all the tragedy, horror, and joy life had to offer. Mary was closer to Anna than she was to her own sister, and yet when someone asked her to leave the room Anna had no choice but to oblige. "Thank you, Anna. That will be all for tonight."

Henry's smile fell the moment the door shut behind her and Mary turned back to the mirror to fuss with her hair. "Well?" she drawled. It was an annoying habit of his to start a discussion then expect her to read his mind. To her surprise he sank wearily onto the edge of the bed, all the fight gone out of him before it'd really begun. " _What_ is going on, Mary? You've been a complete-" He broke off and rubbed a hand across his forehead, no doubt reigning himself in. "You've been terrible to everyone downstairs – everyone you meet actually – for months. Years, it seems. It's one thing to go a few rounds with me, but nobody else deserves it."

To her disbelief, she felt a lump form in her throat. She took deep, sharp breath and swallowed it back. Mary Crawley did _not_ cry. "I don't know what you mean," she forced herself to say, though she knew exactly what he meant. Henry laughed a little, though she recognized nothing was funny, and shook his head. "Fine," he said and started for the door. "I tried," he muttered, and Mary was suddenly and unexpectedly gripped with a fear she didn't understand. "Henry, wait. I'm sorry. I've been awful, I know." She stood in front of him like a chastised child and hated the uncertainty that had sprung up between them. She almost felt awkward when she put her hand on his arm and tried to read into the depths of his eyes. "I'm sorry," she said again. "It's the stress of trying to keep the estate together. I don't know what more I can do and I'm terrified of losing the house, but I shouldn't be taking it out on you."

"I wish you'd talk to me about it, Mary. Maybe I could help."

"The house is my responsibility," she said, grasping for an answer she couldn't actually put into words. Even after twelve years Downton wasn't Henry's home, at least not the way it was hers. He'd said time and again that it was just a house; she knew he'd never truly understand. "But I should talk to you about it," she conceded. "I will." Some of the frustration melted from his face and he almost smiled. She found herself reminiscing over how he never used to be without a smile, and how that easy grin of his had so easily charmed her. He was so very serious these days and she was well past the age of being charmed, and yet, for briefest moment she found herself yearning.

"Good," he said, and pressed a hasty kiss to her cheek. He went to change and she fought once again with the tears that threatened. "I'm going down," she said once she'd won the battle, and wondered if he'd even heard her.

* * *

Mary paused at the mirror outside the library and made sure not a hair was out of place before joining the crowd. She put on her usual bland smile and went to say hello to the most recent arrivals. Cousin Isobel was grilling George about law school again, and Mary had to admire the charm and diplomacy her son used to put off his grandmother's interrogation. It was all but understood he'd be following in his father's footsteps but at the moment he wasn't too keen on anything that didn't come wrapped in a skirt. She joined the conversation with a laugh. "So it's Oxford or bust, is it?"

"Oh, Mary! Perhaps you can talk some sense into your son."

"I'm sure you know as well as anyone that sixteen-year-old boys don't hear a word their mothers say," Mary joked, ignoring the disappointment that followed the thought. Isobel shrugged. "Well that's true. We haven't seen much of Henry lately. Where's he been hiding?"

If she smiled any wider she was certain her cheeks would crack.

"Dad's been really involved in the shop lately," George volunteered eagerly. Mary's smile slipped. _Dad_. It was a term she'd never got used to. It was something he'd picked up at school, and of course as far as George was concerned Henry _was_ his father. "I've been going in with him a lot since I've been home," he was saying. "Running your own business seems pretty interesting."

"Running Downton is like running a business," Mary reminded him, and he sighed. "Yes, Mother, I know. You don't let me forget."

Henry was Dad and she was _Mother_.

"Mary," Cora pulled her away. "I wanted to speak to you about the hospital fundraiser. I think a nice donation from us would really help get the ball rolling for them. What do you think?"

 _I think we can't afford to keep ourselves afloat, let alone a hospital._ "Can we discuss it after the party?" She suggested pleasantly as her chest tightened. "Mary," her father said seriously. "I wanted to ask you about the new tenants, the Fitz-somethings? I heard the most troubling news in town today."

"Papa," she soothed. "You know better than anyone not to pay attention to gossip." If that's all it was. The last thing she needed was an issue with some of their tenants, but Papa was not about to be put off. "When the gossip is about shaving profits I think it warrants some attention."

"Of course, Papa. We'll discuss it tomorrow?" She could feel the cracks begin to appear. A warm hand landed lightly on her back and she jumped, ready to tear into the next person who demanded her attention. "Mary," Tom smiled. "A word?" She followed him to the wet bar and he splashed whiskey into two tumblers. She accepted gratefully and the tension began to seep away. "You're a lifesaver."

"You looked ready to bolt," he remarked.

"I was. Thankfully you showed up when you did."

"What's wrong?"

He was so earnest, so genuinely concerned. _Everything_ , she wanted to say. "Nothing," she smiled. "Just a headache."

"I don't believe you."

Of course he wouldn't. He knew her too well. He'd been her best friend for fifteen years and could read her like a book. She felt her control slip as if she'd hit a patch of ice and her composure crumbled. "You shouldn't." She turned her back to the rest of the room and took a steadying breath. "Mary," Tom murmured. "Tell me. Please."

Barrow announced to the room that dinner was ready, and she plastered on her fake smile once again.

"Another time, it seems."

He put a hand on her arm to hold her back. "Do you want me to tell everyone you're not feeling well?"

"You're a Dear, but no. I'm fine. Just a bad day." If the look on his face was any indication then he didn't believe a word she'd said, but she was grateful when he let the subject drop. He led her to the dining room with his hand resting lightly on her back, and she took strength from that small gesture of comfort.

* * *

Dinner conversation ranged from the worrisome political situation in Germany to Tom and Henry's garage to the annual gala they held on Christmas Eve. Mary tried to change the subject at that point; the gala was a sore spot for her. They'd had to borrow from Peter to pay Paul in order to afford the party this year, but she knew that cancelling it would be the final nail in the coffin and she refused to admit defeat. She kept a white-knuckled grip on the napkin in her lap and tried to block out the conversation.

"I can't wait for Saturday!" Sybbie declared. "It will be so much fun. I do love dancing."

Robert chuckled. "I'm sorry to disappoint but it's nothing but a bunch of stuffy old people."

Sybbie grinned mysteriously. "That's what you think, Donk. Won't you be surprised."

"Oh, do you have a beau coming?" Cousin Isobel asked. Sybbie shrugged, but George ratted her out. "Beaux _plural_ , Gran. Isn't that right, Syb?"

Tom spluttered into his wine glass at that revelation. "What's this now?" For a moment Mary forgot everything and laughed. "You _did_ give her permission to invite some friends, don't forget," she reminded him.

"I said friends, not boyfriends."

Sybbie waved him off and shot George a narrow look. "Don't worry, Dad. They're nothing serious. Anyway I heard that you invited someone too. Faye Delaney, isn't it?" Mary's amusement dried up as Tom turned pink around the collar, though Henry seemed to enjoy putting Tom on the spot. "I thought it was odd she was at the garage with so many car problems," he teased.

"Faye Delaney, from the hospital?" Mary asked, more sharply than intended. Henry's hand snaked into her lap and covered hers. She pursed her lips, annoyed, then glanced over at her husband. His look was more imploring than warning, and she realized she had no business insulting Tom at the dinner table just because she didn't like to share. Impulsively she linked her fingers with Henry's and forced herself to relax.

"Oh, Faye's a lovely woman!" Said blessedly oblivious cousin Isobel. "I've met her several times. I look forward to seeing her at the party."

"She's just a friend," Tom said firmly after he'd caught Mary's eye. She immediately felt guilty. He'd never remarried, though he had had a few dalliances over the years, so who was she to begrudge him his happiness? She let the subject drop, intending to grill him the next day in private, and Isobel turned the spotlight on George, asking him if he had invited any young ladies. Henry didn't take his hand from hers for quite some time and she allowed herself to feel a flicker of hope. And yet, she couldn't completely draw her mind from Tom's revelation.

* * *

Mary never knew which was worse: daytime when she had to deal with her problems or nighttime when she worried about them. She hadn't had a decent sleep for as long as she could remember, and after tonight's dinner she had just one more thing to add to the pile. The meal had lasted an eternity and Mary had made her escape as soon as she could, but she'd spent the last two hours staring at her bedside table as sleep evaded her. Henry came in and tried to be quiet as he got ready for bed. She didn't let him know she was awake. Five minutes of hand-holding wasn't a cure-all and she knew he wouldn't care about her concern for Tom getting involved with a townie. That was the least of her problems, of course. It was almost a pleasant diversion from the usual agonizing over the estate.

Henry flicked off the light and she felt the mattress sink as he slid into bed, and it was several minutes after that that Mary rolled over. "I don't know what to do," she whispered to his back. "I'm sick with worry. I'm afraid I'm developing an ulcer like Papa." It was so much easier to talk to him when she couldn't see the frustration and disappointment he wore like a glove. When he didn't reply right away she assumed he was asleep, and felt relieved. Then he shifted and the mattress creaked as he turned toward her. "What can I do?"

She reached out in the dark and traced the edges of his face for a moment before pulling him in for a kiss. It had been far, far too long since they'd last made love. They'd barely spoken over the last several months, never mind anything else. This was an act of desperation, she knew, and when it was done neither of them spoke. Mary turned back over and squeezed her eyes shut, but the tears still managed to escape.


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: Thanks for the feedback everyone!

* * *

 **The Party**

"Mary, you look as if someone's died. Do pretend to enjoy this, won't you?"

"And why would you care if I enjoyed myself?"

Edith sighed heavily and didn't bother to hide her impatience. "If you're going to be like that then I won't. I _do_ care if Mama and Papa have a good time, and if you walk in there with that look on your face they'll assume the worst." It nearly killed her to do so, but Mary had to admit Edith was right. She managed a pinched smile and forced herself to relax. Guests were beginning to arrive and she certainly wasn't going to give them any reason to _talk_.

"Oh!" Edith sighed. "Would you look at those three? I keep trying to figure out when they grew up."

Mary observed George, Sybbie, and Marigold coming down the stairs all dressed in their finest, and wondered the same thing. They looked wonderful, all of them: young, beautiful, vital. She envied them. "I guess that means we're on our way out."

Edith smirked. "Speak for yourself, Granny."

"You're not comparing me to her already, are you?"

"Actually, I think the day you were born they took one look at you and said 'let's call her Violet'."

For one rare moment Mary let herself see Edith as just a sister, not an adversary, and chuckled. "Well, she didn't go down without a fight and neither shall I."

"Ladies, you look lovely!" Henry joined them. Mary smiled tentatively as he let his hand rest on her hip. They'd been on eggshells around each other these last few days, both unsure how to proceed after their night together. Mary was trying not to think of it, and when she did she tried to convince herself it had been so dispassionate simply because it had been so long since they'd last been intimate. They just needed to find their rhythm again. She leaned into his touch and glanced up at him. He was staring at Edith. "Edie, you're positively glowing! What's put you in such a good mood?"

Mary's goodwill toward her sister evaporated and she shifted away from Henry. Neither seemed to notice. _Edie_. Henry was the only person who ever called Edith that, and Mary hated it. Edith gestured to the children across the room. "It makes me happy to see her so happy. I wouldn't have thought it possible, once." Mary had to physically bite her tongue to stop herself saying something she was sure to regret. She took Henry's elbow. "We really should say hello to the new arrivals," she suggested pointedly. She wasn't particularly happy about the impending small talk she'd have to endure, but she'd be damned if she was going to stand there and watch her sister and husband fawn all over one another. Henry nodded. "Of course."

"I don't know why you encourage her," Mary hissed before they were barely out of earshot.

"Jealousy doesn't suit you," he said, but looked pleased to have her attention. Mary rolled her eyes. "Jealous of Edith? Hell hasn't frozen over yet."

"I don't know," he said mildly. "My toes are a bit chilly."

Henry excused himself to catch up with some old friends, leaving Mary to greet guests as they arrived and mingle for awhile. She pretended to not hear the whispers about the extravagance of the event when all the other surviving estates were hanging on by a thread. She latched on to Aunt Rosamund like a raft in a storm. "They're perfectly content to eat our food and drink our wine and talk behind our backs while they do it."

"And you're surprised? My dear, it's been like this since the dawn of time."

Mary sighed. "I know. I'm just not in the mood for it tonight."

Rosamund patted her hand and snagged two glasses of champagne from a passing tray. "Cheer up. You've got a handsome husband, two brilliant sons, and are throwing the most lavish party of the year. Let them be jealous." Mary took a large mouthful of champagne and looked the other way. "When you put it like that…" Eventually Tom replaced Rosamund and Mary was glad for it. She got along famously with her aunt but with Tom she didn't feel the need for any pretense. "Come on," he said in a fit of spontaneity. "Let's dance."

"Dance?"

Tom laughed. "Yes, Mary, dance. It's fun. You look like you could use some."

She hesitated only a moment, then shrugged. "Alright. I don't really know how to dance to this music though."

"We'll make it up."

It was kind of fun to bump around the dance floor with no steps in mind, and Mary felt herself relax marginally. "It's funny," Tom said. "The parties I grew up with were so much different. Mostly lots of drinking and people who could hardly play their instruments, but a hell of a lot of fun." Mary could hardly picture Tom as a young man, and said as much. The Tom she knew was so calm, so proper.

"Before I came to Downton I was a bit of a hell raiser. Got in trouble with the law a few times – nothing serious – but having Sybbie calmed me down."

Mary did recall Tom in his earliest days as their chauffeur, which was so very strange to think of now. He'd been passionate then, hot-headed. She wondered suddenly how much of that still boiled under the peaceful exterior he wore now. "You're in a reminiscent mood tonight," she remarked finally. He shrugged and spun her in a sloppy twirl. "I suppose. So are you going to tell me what's got you so upset lately?"

"You hardly need to ask. What worries me worries you."

"The estate, I know. But there's more to it, isn't there?"

She wanted to tell him, she really did, but it just didn't feel right to involve him in her concerns about her marriage, no matter how close they were. Finally she settled on a half-truth. "Henry accused me of being jealous of Edith. Can you believe it?" It had nagged her since he'd said it, and Mary considered it a testament to Tom's affection for her when he didn't laugh outright. She watched as he struggled to suppress a grin and was surprised to find his amusement infectious. "Oh, all right," she said with a laugh. "It's ridiculous, I know."

"Yes, but you're annoyed anyway."

He knew her too well. She wasn't about to admit it though, because if she admitted her annoyance she'd be forced to acknowledge there might be some truth to the accusation. She could feel his eyes on her but refused to meet them. "That's not it, though," he said shrewdly. "You never let Edith get under your skin, and you've been off your game for months."

" _Off my game_?" She snickered, deflecting. When that didn't work she tried a glare, but he'd never been intimidated by that. She heaved a sigh. "No, that's not it. I've just had some things on my mind lately."

"So talk to me. Maybe I can help."

She wanted to. He was so sincere and genuinely concerned for her that she thought maybe, _maybe_ it would be alright to relent and let him in. But after a moment's reflection she shook her head. "It's nothing I can discuss right now." He was immediately troubled and his hand tightened around hers. "You're not ill?"

"No, nothing like that. Please just trust me."

It was obvious he wanted to argue. "I – damn it, Mary – alright. I won't pry, but if you need anything you tell me." She squeezed his shoulder gratefully. "Thank you." The song ended and so did the mood for dancing, which was apparently well-timed as Tom looked over her shoulder and smiled. "There's Ms. Delaney. I should go and say hello – that is, if you're alright?" Mary searched the crowd for Faye Delaney and felt a twinge of annoyance to find the woman much younger than she'd expected, and quite pretty. She was tempted to tell Tom that she needed him to stick by her side but knew it would have been horribly petty. "I'm fine, go."

Henry appeared at her side, startling her. "Well she certainly looks smitten," he said with a nod toward Tom and his friend. Mary frowned. "If you say so." She shook off her displeasure and turned her attention to her husband. "Would you like to dance?" He looked pleasantly surprised by the invitation but wasted no time leading her to the floor. She enjoyed the feeling of her hips pressed against his and forgot about Tom altogether. _This_ was the sort of thing she and Henry needed, and it seemed they were on the same page as he cautiously suggested they take a weekend away together in the new year. "It would be good for us," she agreed.

Buoyed by the sudden turnaround with Henry, Mary actually managed to enjoy the party for awhile. Then Papa made his customary speech, and Mary smiled demurely when he toasted her for her extraordinary efforts in keeping the traditions of Downton alive. She sipped her champagne and wished for something stronger, and scanned the room until she found Tom. He alone truly knew how much effort had been required and she wondered if she looked as troubled as he did.

"Are you alright?"

Mary jolted and instantly smoothed her features into a bland mask, then remembered the promise she'd made to Henry only days before. But now was not the time, she reasoned, and smiled. "I'm fine, Darling."


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: The dreaded third chapter. The bane of my existence as a fanfic writer as it always is the hardest to write and is never satisfying. There is a LOT going on in this installment, and I think you might find it either overwhelming or disjointed or both, but hang in there. It's that necessary bridge to the rest of the story. Thanks to all reviewers, your observations have been truly helpful in directing the story!**

* * *

The house was quiet in the early hours of the new year; everyone long since gone home or gone to bed. The silence of the dimly lit kitchen was only disturbed by the gentle ticking of the clock and hum of the refrigerator, which Mary found oddly soothing. She sat with a half-eaten slice of leftover cake forgotten on the table and an ashtray overflowing as she lit one cigarette after another.

That damned dress.

 **New Year's Eve**

"You're sure it's alright?"

"Anna, you really must stop asking. It's been a tradition for too many years to count."

"I know. I just thought it might be an imposition with the party tonight."

Mary rolled her eyes. "It's not a party, just a dinner. Our world can't stop turning simply to accommodate Edith's wedding anniversary. Besides, Robbie would be crushed if Jack didn't spend the night. He's been looking forward to it all week." Anna smiled indulgently at the thought of her son. "Jack too. No matter what gifts we come up with for him his favourite part of his birthday is the annual sleepover." Her smile dimmed slightly. "I wonder how much longer they'll want to keep it up. I can't believe he's twelve already."

"We must remember to enjoy them while we can." She looped a necklace around her throat and stood back from the mirror. "What do you think of this dress? It's not too young, is it?"

"I don't think so, Milady."

"Alright. Well, you'd better get going if you want to have cake before you send Jack over."

"Thank you. Happy New Year."

"Happy New Year, Anna."

Mary studied her reflection with a critical eye. Even if the dress was too young, she pulled it off. She was just adding the finishing touches when Henry came in. She caught his gaze in the mirror and sighed dramatically. "Come to fetch me to the gallows?" He let out a huff of laughter. "No, I've lost one of my cufflinks. You know, it wouldn't kill you to be nice to your sister more often."

"Well, it might." Mary could feel his eyes on her as he fixed his cuffs. She did a small twirl for his benefit. "What do you think?"

"You look spectacular. Is that new?"

She'd been in London earlier in the week running errands when she'd spotted it in the shop window, and she'd bought it impulsively. She'd immediately felt guilty about caving to such an extravagant whim but hadn't been able to resist. "Yes, but I haven't had anything new in ages." He took her by the shoulders and her skin warmed under the graze of his thumbs. "You deserve it, Mary. And even if you didn't it wouldn't matter." He kissed her lightly on the corner of her mouth. "You look too good for anyone to care." Mary relished the moment. She couldn't remember the last time Henry had spoken to her this way. "You know," she suggested slowly, wrapping her arms around his waist. "I'm sure they wouldn't miss us for a little while."

"I doubt that," he laughed, pulling back. The rejection stung more than it should have. She tried not to let it weigh on her as they headed down for the usual pre-dinner cocktails, but it was like a splinter festering in the back of her mind. The library was filled with their dinner guests and she was mildly embarrassed to realize they were the last to arrive, but as she'd predicted no one seemed to notice. Sybbie emerged from the crowd and latched onto her arm. "Oh, wow, Aunt Mary! Please tell me I can borrow that dress!"

"You're the envy of a seventeen-year-old," Henry teased. "How does that feel?"

For a split second, Mary was self-conscious. Maybe the dress really _was_ too young. She suddenly wondered if she looked foolish. Then Sybbie poked Henry with a red-tipped fingernail, chastising. "Are you kidding? I can only pray I'll look this good when I'm her age." Gratitude washed over Mary, and with it her confidence returned. "Darling, for that you can have it. Now, shouldn't you have left already?" Sybbie rolled her eyes. "Yes, well, we're just waiting for Aunt Edith to finish parading Marigold like a show horse." Mary laughed and linked arms with her niece. "Let's go move them along. You don't want to keep the Sawyers waiting." The three of them had been invited to the family home of Sybbie's best friend for their New Year's celebrations, and while Mary thought it would be a nice change for the children, it had taken some arm twisting to get Tom and Edith to agree to send them unchaperoned. Sybbie leaned in conspiratorially. "I know I have you to thank," she said. "It means the world." Mary squeezed her hand. "Just behave yourself," she ordered, and Sybbie winked. "Always."

Edith was indeed showing off Marigold, who couldn't have looked more mortified if she'd tried. Mary begrudgingly found the scene endearing but swooped in to rescue the poor girl. "Edith, if they don't leave now they'll be late for dinner."

"Oh, alright," Edith sighed with an apologetic smile for her audience. She turned aside with Marigold to give her several whispered instructions before hugging her tightly. "Go say goodbye to your Father," she said, and Mary smothered a smile when Marigold had to peel Edith off of her. "I'll be _fine_ , Mum. I'm not going to war, for heaven's sake."

"Yes, alright. Have fun, and be good!"

Sybbie practically dragged Marigold out the door, scooping up George along the way. Mary watched them fondly and once again found herself envious. The most serious thing they had to worry about was getting permission to attend a party. She turned back to find Henry and Bertie had joined them, and Bertie smiled broadly at her. "You look splendid, Mary!"

"Yes, that is _quite_ the dress..." Edith agreed drily, brow raised, then lowered her voice so only Mary could hear. "I thought your man-hunting days were over?" Mary pursed her lips and shrugged, giving her sister a blatant once-over. "It doesn't hurt to make an effort once in awhile," she replied pointedly. Bertie, either oblivious or ignoring the tension, spoke over them. "Did Edith tell you our news?" he asked, tucking his wife into his side. Mary marveled at how unconscious the gesture was, and wondered if Henry had ever noticed that Edith and Bertie never seemed be out of arm's reach of each other. One glance told her either he hadn't noticed or didn't care. "You're not pregnant, are you?" she accused coldly. Bertie burst into choked laughter. "Oh, heavens no! Could you imagine? No, we're taking an African safari in the spring. A second honeymoon of sorts."

"How nice," Mary managed through clenched teeth. They took a second honeymoon every other year, it seemed. She looked around desperately for an escape and zeroed in on Tom, who was in the corner chatting with Faye Delaney. She felt a pang of annoyance but endeavoured to brush it off, and leaned into Henry. "I didn't know he'd invited her," she remarked lightly. Henry shrugged, but in a pleased sort of way. The equivalent of socking his pal on the arm. "Nor did I. Let's go say hello."

"Yes, let's."

Henry chuckled. "You needn't sound so sinister. For Tom's sake, retract the claws." She held up her hands innocently. "I don't know _what_ you're talking about."

Tom's brows winged up at the sight of her, but when the look was replaced by obvious apprehension she knew she'd have to behave. "Ms. Delaney," she greeted pleasantly. "This is a surprise. I didn't know you were coming." Ms. Delaney laughed. "Well, Tom did warn me I'd be swimming with the sharks if I did, but I thought that would be too much fun to miss." Mary blinked. _Tom_? She hadn't the slightest clue how to reply to that, or even how to take it. She saw Tom and Henry both wince, but she was surprised to find herself more amused than anything. "Well, welcome to the shark tank, I suppose."

Ms. Delaney went on to tell them a little about herself and her work at the hospital, but Mary was far more interested in her own private study. Mid-thirties, lovely red-gold hair, animated in conversation. Mary fiddled with the delicate beading along her hip as she observed that Ms. Delaney's dress was nice but serviceable, and worn in a way that suggested the woman didn't really care. She didn't take her clear blue eyes off Tom for more than a moment, and Mary didn't miss the way his hand lingered on her arm when asking if she'd like a drink.

"I'll help," Mary offered. The moment they were out of earshot, she pounced. "Why didn't you tell me she was coming tonight?"

Tom raised his brows and poured brandy into four glasses. "Maybe because you've disliked every single woman I've ever brought around?" She waved a hand dismissively. "Only because none of them were good enough for you." She pondered feigning nonchalance but knew he'd see right through it. "I wasn't aware you were on a first name basis already."

"We're not," he insisted instantly. "Well, not like you mean. She's just progressive." He chuckled and handed her two of the glasses to carry back. "I was sure you were going to spontaneously combust when she said it."

"Oh, shut up. Maybe if you looked less like you were facing a firing squad... besides, I'm fairly certain I'm the most progressive person you know."

He gave her a sidelong glance and smirked. "Yes, I suppose you are."

"What are you two giggling about?" Henry demanded as Mary handed over his brandy. She and Tom shared a look and shrugged. "Progressiveness and firing squads," Tom explained, and Mary snorted into her drink.

* * *

Dinner found Mary seated between Henry and Lord John Spencer, a childhood friend of Bertie's. He was around her age, handsome with an easy smile. She straightened a little in her seat "Why is it we're only just meeting?" she asked as the first course was served. "I'm asking myself the same thing," he drawled with blatant appreciation, and Mary allowed herself a moment of smug satisfaction. She made polite small talk while he flirted outrageously, which was a soothing balm on her confidence after Henry's rebuff earlier. "So what is it you do?"

"Mostly I do my best to spend my father's money as irresponsibly as possible," he said unapologetically, and topped off both their glasses of wine. "Wretched man. I consider it my civic duty." Mary didn't know how else to respond but to laugh. "Well, no one could accuse you of dishonesty." He grinned. "In fact, that's the only thing I've never been accused of." Mary felt a little flutter and cast a sidelong glance at Henry. He was deep in conversation with Isobel and Dickie, but rather than disappointed she was indignant. This rake of a man was practically propositioning her at the dinner table yet all Henry seemed concerned about was driver's licensing, or whatever it was had got him riled up. _Alright then,_ she thought spitefully. _If that's the way it is..._ But as she returned her attention to Lord Spencer she caught Tom watching her steadily, as if he could read her thoughts. She felt her cheeks warm guiltily and looked away.

After dinner they migrated back to the library for the countdown to midnight. Papa served up champagne, card games were started up and someone put a record on, and Mary found herself alone in conversation with Faye Delaney. She was still smarting from Henry's puzzling indifference over dinner when she was cornered.

"I must admit, I've wanted to meet you since I moved to town. You have quite the reputation."

Mary swirled the champagne around in her glass and tried to figure out how to be diplomatic with someone so forthright, especially when she was in no mood to make friends. "Good, I hope."

"Well, it would be more interesting if you had a bad reputation I think, but I'm a great admirer of any woman who breaks barriers the way you do. If Tom has your support behind him in the election, he's sure to win."

Mary was taken aback slightly and gave Faye her full attention. "I'm sorry, election?"

"For the City Council. He told me he was considering it this year."

"He did?"

"Well he mentioned it, but if he's not ready to make an announcement I'll keep it under my hat."

Mary inhaled sharply and fought the surge of irrational anger that jolted through her. Tom was thinking of running for an election and hadn't once mentioned it to her? Betrayal cut deeply and she narrowed her eyes. He was playing a card game with Henry, Bertie, and Papa and laughed loudly over a joke, and she resisted the urge to march over and demand an explanation. Instead she turned back to Faye. "How serious are you about him?" she asked bluntly, because if Tom was telling this woman things he wasn't sharing with Mary then he was pretty damned interested. To her credit, Faye was unmoved. "I don't know yet, but when I do the first person I tell will be him." _Not you_ went unsaid but not unheard. Mary pursed her lips and decided she had to give respect where it was due. "More champagne?"

* * *

"How are you and Ms. Delaney getting on?"

"A great deal better than you and I at the moment."

Tom was instantly wary and more than a little annoyed. "Mary, you cannot get mad at me because you don't like-"

"I expect a little more credit than that," she snapped. Midnight loomed and the room had gotten louder and more jovial with each bottle of champagne, but at that moment she had no qualms about starting an argument. "As a matter of fact I _do_ like Ms. Delaney. I'm angry because apparently you're planning a career in government and neglected to mention it to me." Tom's face fell and he heaved a sigh as he sank down onto the chaise next to her. "Mary, please, can we discuss this tomorrow?"

"I'm not even angry," she continued, ignoring his plea. "I'm hurt. How could you not tell me? This is a huge thing in your life and you didn't tell _me_?"

"I haven't decided anything yet. It was just an idea. And I didn't tell you because I knew you'd want me to do it, even with things the way they are." He didn't need to explain _things_. The only _thing_ was the estate. "Running would take an enormous amount of time and energy and I can't just leave you when things are starting to get bad. We're in this together."

The rush of affection she felt was overwhelming, though to hear it acknowledged out loud that they were in trouble sent a shiver down her spine. Any resentment she harboured was obliterated and she marveled over his selflessness. "Well, you're right," she declared when she found her voice, "I _do_ want you to do what makes you happy. I just wish you'd told me," she pouted. It wasn't sitting well that she'd had to hear it second-hand from a fling he was having, or that he'd told that woman before he'd told her. He smiled crookedly. "I'm sorry, but like I said, it's just an idea. Now it's almost midnight, you'd better go find Henry."

"What's the point?" She muttered, though he heard well enough. Tom turned to face her, propping his elbow on the sofa back, and gave her a searching look. "I thought you and Henry were on better terms lately?" He asked carefully. She hesitated, glass poised at her lips. "So you have noticed," she said dully, and swallowed the last mouthful of whiskey, relishing the way it burned through her chest.

"Of course I have," he said gently.

"You never said anything."

"Neither did you," he said, and she thought back to all those different times he'd tried to get her to talk, and all the times she'd resisted. She'd thought it was because it would have been inappropriate, but she realized suddenly it was out of fear. If she said it out loud then it would become reality. "It started because of all the pressure I've been under," she said in a rush. "But it just...grew, and now I don't know how to talk to him. Things seemed to get better over Christmas, but now – tonight – I may as well be a piece of furniture." She felt the prick of tears but blinked them away. There was no use in getting emotional. Tom took her hand and forced her to meet his gaze. "I can't speak for Henry, but believe me, you're impossible to miss. There isn't a man in this room whose attention you don't have."

"There's at least one."

She was surprised to see impatience flit across his face. "Ok, that's enough. This isn't you. You don't take things lying down and I'm tired of seeing you sad. You don't deserve it. So go over there and tell him to get his head out of his arse and remember how damn lucky he is to have you." Mary's mouth fell open slightly and she felt laughter bubbling up. "Well there's nothing like a good pep-talk." He laughed with her, then sighed. "All couples go through hard times, Mary."

"Of course you're right." She leaned over and kissed his cheek, grateful for the kick in the pants. "Thank you." She stood and straightened her dress, determined to follow Tom's advice. "Oh, and don't think we're finished discussing this election business," she warned as he gently pushed her away. She felt better about things as she searched out Henry.

"What was that about?" Henry asked when she did find him. He smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes. He was clearly troubled and trying to pretend otherwise. Mary shook her head and looped her arms around his shoulders. "Nothing, just chatting."

"What about?"

"It's not important. Truly," she insisted as everyone started counting down, and when the clock chimed twelve, she kissed him. He pulled back quickly, however, and frowned. "I think I should decide if it's important for me to know or not. You promised me, Mary." Her heart thudded at the look he gave her: angry, impatient. She scrambled to catch up. "What did I promise?"

"To talk to me. I won't be brushed off anymore."

Her temper flared instantly. _He_ wouldn't be brushed off? After the night he'd spent ignoring her? "Fine," she seethed. "Ms. Delaney told me Tom was thinking of running for City Council and I was asking him about it because he hadn't mentioned it to me. That's it." She wasn't about to admit Tom had been giving her relationship advice. Henry had the grace to look chagrined but things between them remained chilly after that.

* * *

It was well after one o'clock when Henry shut their bedroom door and loosened his tie. Mary pulled off her necklace and tossed it at her dressing table, not concerned with casualties as it sent her makeup pots spinning. "What are you mad about now?" He asked wearily, draping his jacket over the chair. Mary took a calming breath but found it did nothing to quell the wave of emotion that that threatened to burst out. "I'm not mad, I'm confused. I thought things were going well this week...even this afternoon, but tonight I may as well not have been there at all. You couldn't have shown less interest if I'd been a potted plant." He gaped at her a second before letting out a laugh of disbelief, which not only fueled her ire but hurt as well.

"You're angry because I wasn't paying enough _attention_ to you? You do see the irony here, right?" He shook his head. "I don't see how you even noticed, you had plenty of admirers as it was. John Spencer couldn't say enough about you, and you and Tom looked pretty cozy on that sofa."

"You're not serious?" She spluttered. "John Spencer is nothing but a shallow flirt; I can't believe you'd even care about that. But _Tom_? You're not seriously implying –" If Mary wasn't so shocked she would have laughed. "Where is this coming from?"

"Faye said something to me tonight. When you two were off getting drinks she said she hoped _she_ and Tom would be that close one day. The woman he is _dating_."

"So, let me get this straight," she replied slowly. "You decided to ignore me all night because you're jealous?" He gave her a long, searching look before scrubbing a hand across his brow. "I wasn't ignoring you, Mary. It's…you can't just put on a pretty dress and expect things to change when it suits you." She looked down at her dress, which clung in just the right places and shimmered gold even in the dim light, and felt a mixture of disbelief and embarrassment. She set her jaw and raised her brow imperiously. "What exactly do you mean?"

"I mean that attraction has never been the problem. You're beautiful no matter what you wear. Our problem is a lack of communication. You don't need to impress me, you need to _talk_ to me."

She wrenched the straps off her shoulders and kicked the dress aside. Clearly that had been a waste of time and money. She shoved her arms through the sleeves of her robe and belted it tightly. "You're right, I bought that for you. I only wanted one night of what we had at the beginning – to barely keep our hands off each other, or a night without any worry about the estate or anything else."

"But it's not just about what _you_ want," he replied quietly, but firm. "It's late, I'm tired. Can we please just go to bed?"

She stormed past him and threw open the door. "Do whatever you like."

* * *

Mary absently stabbed the cake slice with her fork and let the cigarette burn down between her fingers. Henry's accusations weighed heavily on her and she hated that he was right, she didn't talk to him. The day he'd made it clear he didn't have any vested interest in Downton was the day she'd begun to shut him out. Naturally that left a void, and Tom fit neatly into it. Or more likely she'd never made space for him in that part of her life _because_ of Tom. Admittedly she could see why Henry might be envious of her relationship with Tom, but they'd gone through so many things together that Henry just wouldn't comprehend.

She didn't understand, however, that odd insinuation about how cozy they'd looked on that sofa together. It was as if Henry thought –

Mary tensed when a loud clatter sounded from down the hall. She was on her feet before reason kicked in, and crept toward the service entrance. She could hear hushed voices speaking urgently and wondered who exactly was at the door at three in the morning. The scene that met her had her stopped in her tracks. "Marigold? _George?"_

They were in the open doorway, Marigold propping up George while fruitlessly begging him to be quiet. At the sound of Mary's voice Marigold turned white as a sheet. "I'm sorry!" She said immediately, still struggling under the weight of her cousin, who could barely keep his feet under him. Mary rushed forward. "What happened? George, are you alright?" He groaned miserably. "I'm sick."

"You're drunk," she realized as the smell of whiskey rolled off of him. "What is going on?" She demanded of her niece as her outrage mounted. It was just coming together for her that the children were sneaking around in the dead of night, drunk and who knows what else. Marigold was so terrified she started hiccupping. "We went... it was just... I didn't-"

"Do not lie to me, Marigold. Have you been drinking too?"

"No, I swear! I only had one glass of champagne!"

Mary's lips all but disappeared into a thin white line and she pulled her son's arm around her shoulders to take the weight of him. He blinked at her with bleary blue eyes. "Mum, I don't feel good," he whimpered and proceeded to double over and vomit on the floor. Marigold shrieked and jumped back. Mary rolled her eyes heavenward for a long moment before zeroing in again on Marigold. "Where's Sybbie?" Marigold nervously glanced back outside but shrugged, obviously torn between loyalty to her cousin and her abject terror of her aunt. Mary passed George off to her. "Get him to the kitchen and get some water in him, then straight to bed," she ordered furiously before marching out into the yard in her robe and slippers.

It didn't take a genius to figure out what was going on, so Mary was prepared for the worst when she wrenched open the car door. Sybbie was in the lap of some young man, and it was impossible to tell where her mouth ended and his began. Mary decided to be grateful that they were still fully dressed, despite the fervor with which the boy's hands were roaming. "Sybil!" She barked, shrilly enough for Sybbie to jerk back in surprise and bump her head on the roof. "Oh shit," Sybbie uttered at the sight of Mary, then clapped her hand across her mouth. She straightened her skirt and slid out of the car as gracefully as she could. "Aunt Mary, I-"

Mary didn't let her finish. "Would you care to introduce me?" She asked, not taking her eyes off the boy still in the car. "You remember Lou's brother, Jamie," Sybbie replied miserably. Mary pursed her lips. "In fact, I don't. I trust you'll find your way home alright, Mr. Sawyer?" He could barely meet her eye as he reached for the ignition. "Yes, ma'am." Mary didn't watch as he drove away. She whirled on her niece, whose panic was palpable. "Aunt Mary, _please_ don't-"

"No. This is how you repay my trust? I can hardly stand to look at you right now."

Sybbie's eyes welled and she took a hitching breath. Mary jabbed a finger toward the house. "Bed. _Now_."

Mary locked the door firmly behind her and leaned against it wearily. This had been the longest, most upsetting night she might have ever had. She felt the sting of tears in the back of her throat and gave herself a moment as the wave washed over her. After it passed she pulled herself together and searched high and low for a bucket and mop to clean up after George. It only occurred to her after her feet were half soaked with sudsy water that she'd never mopped a thing a day in her life. She'd always had somebody else to do her dirty work.

Happy New Year indeed.


	4. Chapter 4

**The Morning After**

Mary jerked awake out of a dead sleep and blinked rapidly, confused. The room was dim and she glanced over her shoulder to find Henry sitting up expectantly. "I'm sorry to wake you but the way we left things last night is eating away at me." Mary sank back into the pillow and struggled to keep her eyes open. "What time is it?"

"Half seven. I know it's early."

Mary sighed deeply. "Can't this wait? I'm exhausted."

"When did you come to bed?"

"I don't know, four?"

"Ah."

There was a wealth of things unsaid in his reply and Mary battled with her own impatience to avoid snapping at him. He was trying to talk with her, to smooth things over. "No, it's the children I have to thank for this." She filled him in on what had happened with them, resigned to the fact that she was apparently up for the day. Mary didn't bother holding back her irritation when Henry fought a smile as she told the story. "It is _not_ amusing, Henry."

"Oh, of course it is. You remember what it was like to be their age. Everyone gets into a little trouble when they're young."

The one time she'd dabbled in youthful rebellion it had nearly resulted in an international incident. The memory didn't endear her to their plight, especially since Sybbie seemed to be following in her footsteps. Henry continued, "I do wish I'd been there to witness you with mop and bucket in hand. A once in a lifetime occurrence."

"Certainly a first," she agreed absently. It had thrown into sharp relief the reality of a life they could very well be faced with if she couldn't save the estate. It was a hard lesson to learn at forty-six that she barely had the skills required to keep the house she was so desperate to save. Making a snap decision, she threw off the covers and reached for her robe.

"Where are you going?"

"If I have to be awake, so do they."

"Mary, we really need to-"

"Talk, I know, but they cannot go unpunished."

"It can't wait?"

"No."

Mary ignored whatever else Henry called after her as she marched down the hall to the opposite wing. She reached Sybbie's room first and found both her nieces sprawled across the bed. She pulled open the curtains to let in the early morning light. "Rise and shine, girls," she tried forcefully, though as expected it did nothing to rouse them. She shook both girls awake and they whined pitifully against the light. Marigold tried to pull the blanket over her head so Mary yanked it clean off the bed. "Up," she ordered.

"What time is it?" Sybbie asked, voice hoarse. Mary smiled sweetly. "Time for breakfast."

Sybbie fell back against the pillow. "We're not hungry."

"Oh, you're not eating breakfast," Mary corrected. "You're making it. You have five minutes to get down to the kitchen."

"What?"

"You're not serious!"

"Move," Mary ordered, over their protests. When she entered George's room she was hit with the smell of sickness and wasn't certain if that made her more or less sympathetic. Tiaa, Papa's aging retriever, was stretched out next to George on the bed and thumped her tail in greeting. "Good girl," Mary murmured and moved aside the pail she'd left at his bedside only a couple of hours before. She studied her son as he slept, something she hadn't done in a decade. Henry was right, trouble often sought out young men George's age, but since her own childhood had been so sheltered Mary wasn't sure what to do about it. She woke him in much the same manner as she had the girls, though he was far less pleasant. " _What_ , Mother?" He snarled, and any sympathy Mary had harboured dried up instantly. She crossed her arms sternly. "Up you get. You have five minutes to get down to the kitchen. You're making breakfast."

"Like hell I am," he grumbled into his pillow, and Mary saw red. "I beg your pardon? You have thirty seconds to get out of that bed, George Crawley, or there won't be words to describe the _hell_ I will rain down on you." He let out a long-suffering sigh and heaved himself to his feet. "This is absolute bullsh- _rubbish,"_ he snapped as he searched blindly for his robe. Mary jabbed her finger toward the door. "That's exactly what I was thinking at three-thirty this morning while I was cleaning up your vomit. Get moving."

* * *

"But we don't know how to make breakfast!"

"And Daisy will have a fit if we mess up her kitchen."

" _Mrs. Parker_ has the morning off, and in case you'd forgotten, this is my kitchen."

"And you certainly know how to make a bang-up meal in it," George patronized. Mary nearly swallowed her tongue in the effort to avoid what was sure to be a nasty argument. George was certainly in fine form, and she knew any attempt at reasoning or arguing would be pointless. He was likely still drunk, and behaving like an absolute bear. She'd deal with him later.

"Gosh, George, that charm must be how you win all the girls," Sybbie snapped in an effort to stand up for her. Even though she was still furious, Mary appreciated the gesture. She faced them as though she was sending troops into battle. "I don't care how you do it, but you will make everyone in this house breakfast, and then you will clean it up."

Marigold, who was taking her punishment like a champ, visibly steeled herself before pulling open the refrigerator to get to work. Sybbie approached her hesitantly. "Aunt Mary...you aren't going to tell Dad about Jamie, are you?"

"I haven't decided yet." Which was true. Mary hadn't had the time to consider the whole situation. Of course she'd tell Tom and Edith about the drinking and sneaking in, but Sybbie was nearly grown and when Mary put herself in the girl's place, she shuddered at the thought. Sybbie continued to stare at the floor. "About last night, I'm sorry. Truly, I am." She looked so downright pathetic with last night's makeup smeared and the terror her father would discover she wasn't such an innocent lamb that Mary wanted to hug her. Instead she nodded sharply. "I should hope so."

Breakfast turned into brunch and the kitchen into a warzone, and as the children carted the food up to the dining room, Mary decided she'd never before known what it was to be on the receiving end of sheer hatred. She was rather pleased with herself. "What's all this?" Papa asked with a laugh as he set his newspaper aside. "Yes, Mary, what _is_ all this?" Edith asked suspiciously as she watched her daughter serve up what was sure to be the worst breakfast ever cooked. Tom and Mama seemed to wait with bated breath and Bertie just looked confused. Mary glared coldly at her son and nieces. "Perhaps you'd like to ask your daughters what they were doing at three o'clock in the morning." Edith gasped and Bertie lurched halfway out of his seat, but it was Tom who calmly put the pieces together. "Judging from the shade of green George has turned, I'd guess it involved some drinking."

"And carousing and sneaking in at nearly dawn."

"Don't forget vomiting all over the servants' hall, which Mary had to clean up," Henry added, trying and failing to disguise his glee. Mary ignored him because her patience had frayed well past the point of no return, and she zeroed in on Tom. His face was mysteriously closed off and she was surprised at how troublesome that was. She didn't like not being able to read him. Edith and Bertie were making a fuss, trying not to shout but doing a lousy job of it. Marigold sighed heavily and tried to defend herself. "I only had one glass of champagne." Mary tore her gaze from Tom and took pity on the girl. She'd done the least amount of complaining. "I will say that Marigold wasn't drunk, but she was complicit."

"Mother," George interrupted, completely pathetic. "Can I please go back to bed now?"

"No, the kitchen still needs to be cleaned up, _before_ the staff gets in."

The children trudged out of the room and Mary finally allowed herself to relax. She collapsed into the nearest chair and reached for the coffee, well aware that everyone was looking to her for an explanation. "Mary..." Tom prodded impatiently. She willed the coffee to work its magic and then some, because now that she was faced with them, she was certain Edith and Tom were going to have something negative to say. "Yes, alright. They broke the rules and our trust, and kept me awake all night. What did you expect, that I'd let them have a nice lie in?" Edith and Bertie exchanged a look and a shrug. "To be honest, Mary, this was pretty clever of you," Edith admitted. "They looked positively miserable."

"What were you even doing down in the kitchen so late?" Mama asked. Mary exchanged a momentary glance with Henry, whose amusement had waned. "I just couldn't sleep. I went down for some warm milk." Papa unfurled his napkin with flourish. "Shall we dig in? This looks...well, terrible, really." Mary had watched what had gone into the preparation of the meal and would have starved to death first, but everyone else seemed game. They laughed and joked over the whole incident, but Tom remained quiet and pensive. When she finally caught his eye, he frowned and looked away.

It wasn't until much later that evening that Mary got the chance to speak to Tom about the whole situation. She bumped into him the hallway just after she'd had a spectacular row with George and was in desperate need of a friendly face. "Everything alright?" He asked, in an oddly detached tone. Mary's stomach twisted as she recalled his earlier displeasure. "I should ask you. You're not angry, are you? That I punished Sybbie without speaking to you first? I wanted to strike while the iron was hot."

"No, of course not."

"Well you're clearly upset," she accused, becoming increasingly upset herself. She couldn't remember the last time he'd truly been angry with her. "Alright," he agreed. "I am. I don't like Sybbie thinking household work is a form of punishment. Working in a kitchen is a good, honest living."

"I know it is."

"How do you think Daisy or Mrs. Patmore would have felt if they'd seen that? Their life's work, reduced to a form of punishment."

Truthfully she hadn't considered that at all, but she certainly hadn't meant what he was accusing her of. "That's not – I didn't –" She stopped and took a quick, calming breath. "Last night it took me a full thirty minutes just to mop up a spot of sick. I'd never done that sort of work in my life and it opened my eyes. The work wasn't the punishment. Having to do it in their state on no sleep was."

"Well, whatever your intentions, it was thoughtless."

Mary was taken aback. "That's rather harsh. You know I have nothing but respect for the staff. I don't know why you're taking this personally, Sybbie wasn't even born the last time you were in service." His nostrils flared but he didn't rise to the bait. "Good night, Mary," he said, and stepped around her to continue down the hall, as if their conversation hadn't even happened. Mary's mouth hung open slightly as she watched him disappear around the corner.

* * *

Henry looked up from his book as she crawled into bed. "You look like you've been through the wringer."

"That tends to happen when you're universally hated." All she wanted was to shut her eyes and sleep until all her problems disappeared. She didn't even have the energy to change into her nightclothes. She heard Henry sigh and set his book on the bedside table. "What happened?"

"I had a terrible fight with George, for one. The things he said…" The wounds were still fresh, scored deep on her heart. It was something she'd never get used to, her own child hating her.

"George doesn't hate you, believe me. He's just young and pushing his boundaries, and I'm sure his hangover didn't improve his mood."

"Nor mine."

"I'll talk to him."

Mary rolled over to face him, surprised that even after all the trouble they'd had he was still concerned. She hesitated over voicing the rest of her troubles. She didn't want to ruin the moment by bringing up Tom, but what he'd said in the hallway was festering. "Do you think having the children make breakfast was insensitive to the staff?" She was careful to leave names out of it and thankfully Henry didn't press much. He frowned pensively. "Of course not, don't be silly. Why?"

"I was just thinking."

"I wouldn't let it worry you. Listen, I was thinking we ought to spend a night or two in the city after we take the boys back up to school next week."

"What for?"

"Well, to get away, like we discussed."

"Oh. Of course. That sounds good." She'd all but forgotten about that discussion and the guilt from that just added to the pile. The weight of it all was exhausting. She let her eyes droop shut as Henry went on about the trip and was asleep in seconds.

* * *

Mary hesitated on the threshold of the garage, uncertain of how she would be received. Father and daughter were hunched underneath the car's bonnet, deeply involved in a discussion about the engine or some such thing. She cleared her throat and marched in. "I hate to interrupt," she said breezily. Tom and Sybbie glanced over. "And yet that never seems to stop you," Tom observed, and Mary relaxed. He couldn't still be angry if he was in a teasing mood.

"I'm headed out for a ride and thought Sybbie might join me." After she'd had a good night's sleep, Mary had realized it was time for a frank conversation with her niece. Sybbie made a face and Tom leaned back from the car. Both of them were greased to the elbows. Mindful of her white jodhpurs, Mary kept well out of reach. Tom mindlessly cleaned his hands on a rag while Sybbie hastened to fill her in. "Well, I'm grounded, so..."

"She is grounded," Tom agreed, his eyes taking on a mischievous glint. "But we all know how much she enjoys horseback riding, so I suppose it's alright."

Sybbie groaned loudly and Mary smirked. Since the age of seven, when an unfortunate incident had landed Sybbie in pile of fresh manure, she'd disliked everything horses stood for. Unfortunately, every English girl of breeding was expected to be an accomplished rider so Mary had insisted she learn. Sybbie trudged off to change her clothes and Mary dawdled in leaving for the stable to study Tom a moment. He was practically whistling as he worked; it was as though the past twenty-four hours hadn't happened. "You're rather chipper today," she said slowly, testing the waters. He tossed the rag into a bucket and shrugged. "I suppose." But he didn't elaborate.

"Alright... we should be back in a couple of hours."

"Don't hurry, I'm meeting Faye in town for lunch."

 _Ah._ "How nice."

Tom let out a snort of laughter. "You'll have to dial back that enthusiasm, it's overwhelming."

Mary pursed her lips and rolled her eyes. "I _like_ Miss Delaney, so please spare me." She paused, then the words spilled out unexpectedly. "By the way, I should thank you for your advice the other night about Henry. We're taking a few days away next week. A sort of romantic getaway." Not a complete lie, but close enough. It was less a romantic trip than a salvage operation, but she had no idea what had compelled her to say otherwise. "I'm glad to hear it," he said lightly, though the edge had come off his mirth. "Now you'd better go before Sybbie makes a break for freedom."

She felt strangely smug as she left the garage, but shook it off when she saw Sybbie pouting by the stable. She needed all her wits about her for the conversation she was about to have.

* * *

It was a lovely day for riding: crisp, bright, clear. The horses plodded along, snow crunching underfoot and their breath rising in great clouds of steam. Mary shifted in the saddle and worked out her approach. "Are you serious about this boy Jamie?"

Sybbie shrugged. "I don't know, he's fun."

Mary recalled how much fun Sybbie seemed to have with the young man in question, and sighed. She debated dancing around the subject but decided to fall back on her strengths and just get to the point. "Have you slept with him?"

" _What?_ " Sybbie spluttered. "Aunt Mary! What kind of question is that?"

"A simple one. Well?"

" _Well_ \- that's...that's really none of your business."

Sybbie refused to meet Mary's eye, and Mary didn't know if it was from embarrassment or shame. "No," she agreed. "I suppose it's not. But what is my business is your well-being."

"I'm fine," Sybbie insisted. "I'm not stupid."

"You're human, and humans are very stupid in certain moments. I'm not telling you what to do or not to do, I just want you to be aware of the consequences. This world is not kind or easy for women. An unwanted pregnancy would be a nail in your coffin."

"That's a little dramatic," Sybbie muttered.

"No, it's not. It's reality, especially for someone in your position."

"What position?"

Mary wondered if the girl was being obstinate on purpose. "You were born into privilege, Sybbie, and you know it. A village girl or a chambermaid could get away with it, perhaps, but we don't go unnoticed. _Believe_ me when I tell you I know what I'm talking about." They lapsed into silence, each lost in her own private thoughts for a few moments. "So you think I should wait 'til marriage," Sybbie said eventually. Mary tried to choose her words carefully. "I think you're so very young – no matter how much you try to deny it – and I want to encourage you to wait until you're with someone you truly care about."

"Because I could get pregnant and he'd have to marry me."

"Because sex isn't something you want to throw away on someone meaningless. It's so much more than just the physical aspect."

"But the physical is...hard to resist."

"Yes, I recall your enthusiasm," Mary said drily, and Sybbie blushed at the memory of being caught out by her Aunt on New Year's Eve. "Look," Mary continued, "No one can make this decision for you, but when the time comes... when it comes, there are certain things you can use-"

"I can't get a contraceptive device," Sybbie said flatly, in a way that intimated she had already tried and failed. Mary swallowed heavily. It was hard to look at Sybbie as the young woman she was and not see the child she used to be. Nevertheless, Mary soldiered on. "Alright. Leave it to me." She had weathered enough scandal in her time to recognize the need for practicality. Sybbie blinked, shocked. "Really? But – I – thank you." Mary pulled the horse to a stop and forced her niece to look at her. "Only because I love you, and I was your age once. This is not an invitation for you to throw caution out the window with every boy you meet, but you must protect yourself at all costs. Do you understand?"

"Yes, Aunt Mary. I promise."

"Good. Now, you're going to invite Mr. Sawyer to dinner and introduce him to your father."

"I don't think Dad could handle me bringing a boy home. He still thinks I'm ten."

Well, she was right about that. "All parents do, Darling."


	5. Chapter 5

A/N: I haven't forgotten this story! The Muse took a vacation, as she is wont to do. This chapter might be a bit uneven, I'm not sure. I also couldn't resist the opportunity to reference one of my favourite movies, _Easy Virtue_ starring Jessica Biel. It's an easy crossover here, and I highly recommend checking the movie out!

* * *

 **The Talk**

Henry had booked them into a small hotel on the outskirts of London. After they'd deposited George back at Eton they'd taken the long way there – a leisurely cruise, Henry called it. Mary sat with her hands clasped in her lap and watched the scenery drift by. She was startled to see how much of the countryside had been absorbed into the city since she'd last been down this way. "You can't stop progress," Henry commented when she voiced her observations. Mary frowned. "I wouldn't call the disappearance of farmland progress. More a travesty for the farmers losing their livelihoods."

"Adapt or die, isn't that what they say?"

"That's bleak." The comparison was a little too on the nose and Mary had to resist rolling her eyes. "Let's keep things light, shall we?" She suggested. "After all, isn't that what this trip is about?"

"It's about a lot of things. But I agree, we should try to have some fun this weekend. In fact, I've planned the whole evening around it." He said it with a hesitant, boyish smile and Mary reminded herself to enjoy the moment. "You've got something planned, have you? Do you intend to fill me in?"

"Nope."

"Well how will I know what to wear?"

"Wear your finest. Maybe you can borrow something from your Aunt if you didn't bring enough."

Mary laughed lightly, puzzled. "Borrow something from Aunt Rosamund? Why, have you suddenly developed a fetish for matronly fashion? Because if that's the case, I can give her a call..." Henry threw his head back with a shout of laughter. "Well, now that you mention it," he teased, and Mary felt some of the weight lift off her shoulders. They hadn't flirted like this in a long time. For dinner she dressed in her finest as he'd instructed, but it wasn't until they arrived at the restaurant that she understood the comment about Aunt Rosamund. "This is where we had our first date," she said, surprised. It was a sweet, unexpectedly romantic gesture. Henry was grinning from ear to ear as he handed off the car to the valet and led her inside. He held her chair for her and she ordered a scotch and water while he did the same, along with a bottle of champagne.

The waiter disappeared and they were alone again. The silence between them was almost awkward and Mary smoothed out her napkin in her lap for something to do. The silence stretched until their drinks arrived and when Henry finished his in a single mouthful, Mary wondered if his nerves were as frayed as hers. "So," she attempted. "What does the rest of the evening hold for us?"

"I thought we might go dancing, if you're in the mood for it."

"Are people our age even allowed in dance halls?"

Henry laughed and the tension was broken somewhat. "Well, I know a guy who can sneak us in."

Mary sipped her drink and relaxed. It was absurd to feel nervous around her own husband. "George seemed happy to get back to school," she commented, sticking to safe ground. "I confess, I was as well." The last few weeks she'd been at loggerheads with her son, and it was both exhausting and heartbreaking.

"You know he loves you. He's just been feeling a bit pressured about his future."

"Pressured how?"

Henry looked like he had serious regrets even bringing the subject up. "Law school, Downton. He doesn't feel like he has much say in the matter."

"And what would he say?" Mary scoffed. "The last thing he showed serious interest in was conducting his train set when he was five."

"He's shown a lot of interest in the garage lately."

The retort was on the tip of her tongue, but she caught herself just in time. There was absolutely nothing she would say to that that wouldn't ruin the evening right then. It seemed that even George wasn't a safe topic anymore. "And how is the garage these days?" she asked finally. "You haven't spoken of it much."

"Virtually runs itself."

Mary was perplexed, then mildly suspicious of his tone. "Most people would be pleased to have their business run so smoothly." Henry shrugged, and Mary realized she knew _that_ look. "You're bored," she surmised. Henry fiddled with the cutlery beside his plate for a moment, pensive. "Do you remember Larita Whitaker? We knew each other back in my racing days." Mary was startled by the shift in conversation. The name was familiar; Mary recalled a brash American woman who'd earned her living racing. "Vaguely, why?" _Planning to run off with her?_ The thought had Mary's lips twitching, especially when she recalled the rumours of the woman running off with her young husband's father.

"She's come to me with a business opportunity. She's putting together a racing team and is looking for investors."

Mary and Henry had never mixed their money. In fact, they rarely even discussed the state of their personal finances with one another. She immediately thought of the estate and her own money trouble, but squashed the thought flat. "The garage must be doing very well then if you're thinking of this investment."

"Well I haven't made any decisions yet."

 _Of course you have. You wouldn't have brought it up otherwise._ Mary smiled, trying to muster the appropriate amount of enthusiasm. "How exciting." She wondered if he'd discussed it with Tom, who after all was his business partner, but when she considered bringing it up something stopped her. It was infuriating that she couldn't mention Tom's name without worrying over Henry's reaction. Annoyed, she finished off the last of the champagne in her glass.

"So what do you think?"

Mary realized belatedly that Henry had kept talking but she hadn't heard a word he'd said. She winced inwardly. Great effort she was putting up this evening. "Whatever you want to do," she replied, hoping it was the right thing to say. "I support you." Henry's smile suggested he didn't quite believe her. "Are you sure?"

"Why wouldn't I be?"

"I know you're concerned about the estate. It might not be smart to tie up all the money in a new venture right now."

Mary nearly choked on her dinner roll. "Absolutely not!" The very idea that she'd let a second husband of hers bail out the estate left a bitter taste in her mouth. "No," she said again, more pleasantly. "I appreciate the offer, but it's not necessary. We're managing things." The nerve beside Henry's eye jumped and he brushed off the conversation, and Mary wondered sadly how much truly went unsaid between them. "So," she said brightly. "Where are we going dancing?"

* * *

The night hadn't been a total bust. Mary had made a real effort after that awkward moment about the estate, and by the time they'd made it to the dance club, both their spirits were high. Mary couldn't remember what time she and Henry had made it back, but it had been late enough that when Mary woke she found herself in her slip with Henry face-down asleep next to her. She allowed herself a moment to enjoy the quiet comfort of a warm bed and Henry's deep breathing beside her before she called down to order breakfast.

"Good morning, Mrs. Talbot," the clerk said pleasantly, and Mary ignored the mild spasm she felt at being addressed as _Mrs._ and not _Lady._ She'd had years to get over it, but never really had. Mary scowled into the handset and ordered breakfast to be sent up immediately. "Of course, Mrs. Talbot," the clerk intoned, unimpressed. "Right away. Also I have a message for you from Miss Branson, left early this morning." Mary forgot her annoyance and straightened, concerned. The clerk carried on: "She requested you call her immediately. She said it was urgent but not an emergency." Mary couldn't dial quickly enough, and judging the way the line barely rang, it seemed Sybbie had been standing next to the telephone awaiting her call. "Sybbie, what is it?" Mary demanded. Henry continued to snore beside her. "What's wrong?"

"Everyone's fine," Sybbie insisted, her voice barely above a whisper. "It's just – I needed to warn you."

Mary was instantly wary. "About?"

"You know how Jamie came over the other night for dinner?"

Mary was well aware; she'd been very sorry to miss it.

"So I guess Dad finally realized that I'm seventeen and that boys are in the picture, and he tried to have _the talk_ with me last night."

Mary snorted, torn between amusement and apprehension at where this was headed.

"Which of course was ridiculous," Sybbie rushed on. "So I stopped him in his tracks and said that he could save himself the embarrassment because you'd told me everything I needed to know years ago." Sybbie's voice turned meek then. "And then for some idiotic reason I told him that I was smart enough to not get pregnant because you'd taught me better than that."

"Ah."

"And he just _lost_ it. I don't think I've ever seen him so angry. I am so sorry!"

Mary slumped back against the pillow and nearly laughed. It seemed the universe would never run out of ways to make her life difficult. Sybbie apologized again and sounded near tears. Mary took pity on the girl. "Darling, it's fine. I'll deal with it when I get home." When she managed to talk her niece off the phone, Mary replaced the handset into the cradle and pulled the covers over her head. She had no desire to face the world until she was forced to. Unfortunately breakfast arrived promptly and she pouted over the dilemma of being irritated by good service.

"Who was on the phone?" Henry asked into the pillow as Mary perused the breakfast cart.

"Sybbie. Apparently she's involved in some catastrophe with her father and was thoughtful enough to drag me into it." Mary didn't know what Tom had expected, but to think his daughter would remain ignorant into adulthood was laughable. Still, the more she thought over what Sybbie had told her, the more anxious she got. She hadn't handled it well when she'd thought Tom was angry over the kitchen incident, but now it sounded like Mary needed to prepare for the worst. "All the more reason to be grateful we have sons," Henry muttered groggily. He took a piece of bacon from the tray and suggested they see a film that afternoon. Mary didn't know how to tell him that she had no interest in staying another night. She knew it was supposed to be a whole romantic weekend, but the idea of staying a second night seemed pointless. There were a thousand other things she could have done with her time. Guilt immediately followed the thought and Mary winced inwardly, appalled at her own thoughtlessness. "That sounds fun," she forced herself to agree.

It wasn't. While Claire Trevor and Donald Woods danced around one another on screen, Mary obsessed over what she'd be walking into when they finally made it home. At one point Henry's hand landed on her knee and she jumped, only realizing afterward that he wasn't being romantic, just stilling her restless jiggling. After the film they took a stroll around the park, where Henry called her out. "You seem awfully distracted today. Is something the matter? The estate?"

For the first time in years, Downton was the furthest thing from her mind, but Mary didn't want a fight if she brought up Tom, so she lied. "Always," she sighed. "Now that the holiday is over, it's back to reality. Tax season's looming, you know. That always stresses me out." Henry looked so pleased she'd thrown him a crumb of information that Mary felt like a complete ass, but when he suggested they cut the trip short and head home early she could barely mask her relief.

* * *

They made it back home in time for dinner, but found the house oddly quiet. "It's a mausoleum in here," Henry remarked to Barrow, who took their bags. "Where is everyone?"

"Out for the evening, Sir. Lord and Lady Crawley are dining with friends and Miss Branson is nowhere to be found. Shall I have a cold plate made up for you?"

"Oh, that's fine, Barrow. I'll get it myself."

"Very good, Sir. Did you have a pleasant trip Milady?"

"Yes, it was lovely. Why don't you take the rest of the evening off, Barrow? No sense in wasting an empty house."

Henry looked surprised as Barrow hurried off, apparently anxious to capitalize on his good fortune. "That was nice of you." Mary shrugged and casually peered down the hallway. Barrow hadn't said anything of Tom's whereabouts and Mary just wanted to confront him and be done with it. "There's nobody here anymore. It's got to be dreadfully boring for him." She'd held Barrow in a special regard since George was young. The normally recalcitrant butler had been especially good to her son all these years. "It's certainly a lot quieter without the children here," Henry agreed. Mary didn't bother correcting him since he hadn't been around during the manor's heyday, when it was bursting at the seams with staff and family. She had the sudden, piercing realization that one day soon the children would be gone for good, and Mama and Papa wouldn't live forever.

"Are you alright? You look like you've seen a ghost."

Mary shook her head and laughed feebly. "No, nevermind. I was just having a vision of myself rattling around these empty halls _like_ a ghost."

"That's a tad dramatic for you," Henry teased. "Soon enough we'll be grandparents, don't forget."

Which reminded her...

"Do you want something to eat? I'm starved. I'm going to see what's in the refrigerator."

"I'm not hungry."

Henry narrowed his eyes. "Are you sure you're alright? You've been acting so strangely all day."

"I'm _fine,_ " she insisted impatiently, and physically turned him toward the stairs. "Go, I can hear your stomach rumbling from here." She headed off to the library in search of some liquid courage, and when she heard music playing faintly behind the door, she figured she could kill two birds with one stone. She pushed open the door and went straight for the bar service, only seeing Tom in her periphery. He was beside the fire with a book in his lap and the dog at his feet. The music was Irish, and he only played it when he was in a bad mood. "You're back," he observed tonelessly. Mary downed the first splash of whiskey and poured herself a second one before facing him. "Alright," she said. "Let's have it."

"Have what, exactly?"

Mary set her jaw as the air thickened with tension. "Sybbie called me this morning in hysterics. She's convinced you want to disown us both." Tom set the book aside and got to his feet, clearly squaring for a fight. "You want to do this now? Fine. What I _want_ is to know what the hell you said to my daughter."

"I gave her the facts."

"It sounds like you gave her a lot more than that."

"I told her what she needed to know, woman to woman."

"Woman to woman? She's still just a girl, for God's sake!"

Mary snorted derisively. "No, she's not. She's nearly eighteen. What were _you_ doing at her age? Do you actually expect me to believe my sister was your first and last lover?"

"Sybbie's nothing like – she wouldn't – she's a good girl!"

"You can't seriously be that naïve! And you certainly don't know what it's like to be female in this day and age, so spare me."

Now that she was in the middle of it, Mary was flush with anger. Tom had never been so pigheaded in all the time she'd known him, and Sybbie would have suffered for it if Mary hadn't stepped in. When she said as much to him, Tom nearly choked. "You had no right!" He shouted. "She's _my_ daughter!"

"So that makes you an expert?" She shouted right back. "What would you have done if Sybbie had come to you when she was twelve and had started her monthly, hm? You wouldn't have had a clue. There are things daughters just don't talk to their fathers about!" Tom threw up his hands. "That's not up to you! I'm all she has!"

"Bullshit!" Mary didn't curse often, but there was nothing else to be said as his words cut deep. "She has me!"

"You are _not_ her mother!"

"I'm the closest thing she's got!"

The library door was thrown open then, startling them both. "What in God's name is going on?" Henry demanded. "I could hear you shouting from the kitchen!" Mary and Tom exchanged one more furious glare before Tom stormed out of the room. Mary's fingers tightened around her glass, and in a wildly uncharacteristic move she allowed her rage to take over and hurled the glass across the room. "Damn him!"

Henry's mouth fell open in surprise. "Mary! What the hell happened?"

"He's being an utter idiot about Sybbie and is taking it out on me."

Henry stared at her for a long moment while he processed this. "You two were having a screaming match over _Sybbie_? Is this what that phone call was about this morning?" Mary paced in front of the fire, replaying the argument in her mind. "Yes. He's mad because I talked to Sybbie about sex without his permission." Henry fell silent again, but Mary paid no attention. She couldn't believe how quickly things had escalated, and she wondered if Tom truly meant what'd he'd said.

"This is why you were acting so odd all day," Henry said slowly. "We cut our trip short because you were upset about _Tom_?"

Mary faltered as she caught up to what Henry was saying. "It was your idea to come home," she replied lamely. His face lost its colour and seemed to ice over, but all Mary could think was: _not now._ She was having a serious family crisis and Henry was choosing _now_ to confront her?

"Because you led me to believe you were completely stressed about the estate! You lied to me."

Mary heaved a sigh, exasperated. It seemed like everything was coming out tonight. "Yes, I lied. I'm sorry. But I only did it because you've been so touchy about Tom lately, making all sorts of baseless insinuations. I have to walk on eggshells all the time around you and I don't even know why!"

"Baseless insinuations? Oh, that's rich. Maybe you ought to consider the fact that it drove you crazy to think he was angry with you for _one day_ , but you don't even notice when I'm upset. Doesn't sound so baseless to me."

"Of course I notice when you're upset, Henry," Mary drawled. "It's hard to miss."

"So then it's just that you don't care."

"Oh, for Christ's sake, would you listen to yourself? Of course I care! You're my husband and I love you. Tom is my brother. I wish you'd remember that."

Henry gave her a resigned, almost pitying look and shook his head. "He is not your brother, Mary. He's a man who was married to your sister for five minutes twenty years ago." Mary reared back as though she'd been slapped. "That was incredibly callous," she accused lowly. Henry raked a hand through his hair and shrugged. "Maybe, but it's the truth." Mary's hands curled into fists. "Go to hell, Henry."

"You mean this isn't it?" He muttered under his breath as she stormed out. She considered it a matter of principle that she kept her composure until she slammed her bedroom door shut behind her. After that she didn't know if she wanted to cry or to hit the wall, so she did both.


	6. Chapter 6

**The River in Egypt**

Mary watched the sunrise for the second day in a row. She sat in the armchair she'd dragged over to the window and put her feet up on the edge of the vanity as she lit a cigarette. She'd abandoned her rule against smoking in the bedroom after the first night of insomnia. She looked away from the lightening sky to observe Henry's side of the bed, which was still made. He'd been gone for two days. After their fight the other night he'd taken his still-packed bag and left without a word. She'd told everyone he'd gone to visit his father but truthfully she hadn't a clue where he was or when he'd return. She wished she could stay angry but once her self-righteousness had burned off she was forced to look at the situation from Henry's perspective and she knew she'd made a giant mess of things. Mary finished her cigarette and realized she wasn't going to solve anything moping in her room. Making a snap decision, she dressed hastily and hurried down the stairs to call for a taxi. If she rushed, she could make the first train to London.

She arrived at Belgrave Square just as her aunt was sitting down to breakfast. Rosamund was in the process of buttering her toast when the butler showed Mary in, and it took one look from her niece to have her clearing the room. "Who died?" She demanded immediately. Mary sighed and sank into the nearest chair. "My marriage." Rosamund pursed her lips and put down the toast. Mary felt the urge to squirm under her scrutiny, which was far too reminiscent of her grandmother. She pinched the bridge of her nose in an attempt to ease the tension behind her eyes, and to avoid her aunt's probing gaze. "Henry walked out two days ago."

"What happened?"

There was a wealth of concern in Rosamund's voice. Mary relaxed slightly, then couldn't help but jump out of her seat to pace. She would have chewed her fingernails right off if it weren't so common. "Henry _thinks..."_ God, it was ridiculous even saying it aloud. "That there is something going on between me and Tom."

"Well, is there?"

Mary's mouth fell open. "Don't be absurd!" Rosamund looked completely unruffled. "That doesn't answer my question." Mary rolled her eyes. "No, there is nothing going on. How can you ask that? Need I remind you that we're _family_?"

"By marriage, which hardly counts."

Mary scowled. "That's what Henry said."

Rosamund's face softened and she reached out to grasp Mary's hand. "What else did he say? Tell me, from the beginning." So Mary filled her in on everything, beginning with the chilly communication between herself and Henry all the way up to the argument that had driven him away. It didn't escape her that when she put it all together, she was unavoidably the villain. "Have I been as selfish as I think I have?" she asked, bitterly ashamed of herself. Her aunt remained pensive for a long moment. "Mary, I can't pretend to know enough about marriage to tell you what you want to hear. Marmaduke and I were only together a few short years before he died. I do know enough to say that marriage takes a lot of sacrifice and compromise, and that neither of those are your strongest qualities."

"No," Mary agreed. "But Henry knew that about me when he married me."

It was Rosamund's turn to roll her eyes. "Let's not kid ourselves, you hardly knew each other when you got married." Stung, Mary scowled. "Well had I known he was so inclined to petty jealousy..." she mumbled.

"It doesn't sound petty to me. You and Tom have been thick as thieves for years. If the situation were reversed, how would you feel?"

Mary struggled, torn between seeing her aunt's point and trying to prove her own. "It's not that simple. Tom is my closest friend." Her only friend, if she was honest with herself. "He plays a part in my life that Henry can't. Maybe Henry just refuses to believe a man and woman can have a real friendship."

"So you don't have any feelings for him?"

Mary threw up her hands, exasperated. "NO." She'd come to her aunt for sympathy and advice, not opposition. For her to even _suggest-_

"It's not such an absurd notion," Rosamund chided. "As you say, he's your closest confidant. He knows you better than anyone. He's handsome. Why is it so unreasonable?"

" _Because."_ Mary had so many objections she found it impossible to know where to start.

"I see. My Dear, if you hope to convince your husband there's nothing to worry about, you should convince yourself first." The shock of that unglued Mary's tongue. "I care for Tom because he is my brother, and my partner in the estate, and because he treats me as an equal." From the day he'd moved into Downton Tom had treated her no differently than he did any of his male contemporaries. She'd never thought of it before, but now that she had it was obvious. By the very nature of their marriage Henry should have been head of the household, but she'd had a taste of that freedom and they'd been engaged in a power struggle ever since.

"Tom is also the only man that has never fallen at your feet." Rosamund pointed out, bringing Mary back to Earth. "Some women find that quality in a man very attractive."

"God help me if I'm ever that predictable."

Rosamund didn't look convinced but she played along. "Alright, but what about him? Does he have feelings for you?" Mary's knee-jerk reaction was to deny it, but she forced herself to consider the possibility. "Obviously I can't read his mind," she replied after a long moment. "But he's never given any indication that he does. I find it highly doubtful."

"He's never remarried."

"Neither did you," Mary reminded her aunt drily. "Some never do, and he himself has said he just hasn't found the right woman."

"Or he _has_ but is too much a gentleman to say so."

Her aunt looked so enthusiastic that Mary couldn't help but laugh at the absurdity of the whole thing. Of course there weren't any feelings between herself and Tom. She couldn't believe Rosamund had had her questioning that for even an instant. "Tom is quite involved with Faye Delaney at the moment and I need your advice on what to do about Henry, so please, can you abandon this ridiculous notion and help me come up with a plan?"

* * *

Rosamund's advice was simple: grovel. Swallow her pride and apologize for her wretched behaviour. Mary believed it would have been easier to sprout wings and fly than to admit to Henry she'd been wrong in not putting him first, but if she wanted to save her marriage then it had to be done. After her conference with her aunt she'd spent the better part of the afternoon wandering around London, peering into windows here and there, half-hoping to find Henry in one of his usual haunts. It had been a pathetic exercise and had left her feeling sad more than anything. She'd reluctantly returned home only when the wind picked up, ushering in a storm.

Mary's preoccupation carried over into dinner, which was a more painful affair than usual. Sybbie was up at Brancaster for the week and Tom was out with Miss Delaney again, so Mary was left with just her parents for company. As sheets of icy rain slapped against the windows Mary knew Henry wouldn't be returning that night, and she wondered briefly if Tom would bother braving the storm either, or if he'd just stay with Miss Delaney. She immediately quashed the thought and washed it back with a healthy swallow of wine. What he did or didn't do with Faye Delaney was none of her concern. Still, she couldn't keep her train of thought from turning back to him. All of her aunt's ridiculous theories aside, Mary missed Tom. He hadn't spoken to her since their fight, the same night Henry had left. She felt absurdly adrift without either of them around; however, she didn't dwell on the fact that she wasn't worried about mending fences with Tom, but wasn't sure if she could expect to make reparations with her husband.

Mary quickly realized that the wine was doing nothing to quell her inner turmoil or drown out the inane dinner conversation, so she skipped dessert and closed herself in the library. She poured herself a real drink and switched on the radio, hoping to find a program to provide some distraction, but she quickly found herself rehearsing what she'd say to Henry, should he ever come home.

 _I'm sorry. I haven't been fair to you or your needs._ No, that made her sound weak.

 _I'm sorry, you were right. I haven't been considering your feelings._ That was better. _I've been too busy running this estate,_ a snide voice whispered. _I'm sorry if that hasn't left me the time for coddling._

Well, it was no wonder she'd run him off. She couldn't even muster a half-decent apology in the privacy of her own mind. She snorted derisively and refilled her glass again.

"What's funny?"

Mary jumped out of her skin. Tom stood in the doorway, observing her warily. "You scared the life out of me!" She accused, her hand pressed to her racing heart. "Sorry," he said shortly, hesitating briefly before stepping over the threshold, closing the door behind him to keep the heat in. He didn't look at her as he went over to the bar and Mary experienced a moment of unexpected disappointment. She looked away and pretended to turn her attention back to the program. He sat in the chair he liked by the fire while Mary watched from the corner of her eye.

"You're drinking _gin_?" He observed, breaking the pregnant silence. She shrugged. "We're out of whiskey." She paused and finished her drink. The gin was starting to make her head swim. "I wasn't sure you'd make it home in this weather," she remarked lightly, unable to help herself.

"Why wouldn't I?"

"Why _would_ you?" She muttered and reached for the bottle on the table.

"I take it Henry's still visiting his father?"

Mary met his gaze and found an intensity there that surprised her. It was as though he was attempting to see right through her. She decided to let him. "Do you actually believe that?"

"No, I suppose not. Where is he really?"

"Your guess is as good as mine."

"What happened?"

The whole miserable story was bursting to come out, and the gin wasn't helping any, but she managed to keep herself in check. She adjusted the throw around her legs and regarded him coolly, forcefully reminding herself of their last conversation. "So you're speaking to me again?"

"So it would seem." He sighed heavily and set his glass aside to lean forward on his knees, serious and troubled. "I owe you an apology. What I said to you was inexcusable."

Mary recalled the harsh words he'd used and felt the wounds reopen. She'd been hurt deeply when it seemed as though he didn't value her input in Sybbie's life. "As you made abundantly clear, she's _your_ daughter."

"Don't do that," he scowled.

"What?" She asked obstinately.

"Don't be passive-aggressive when I'm trying to apologize."

"Would you rather I be aggressive-aggressive?"

Tom abandoned his chair to join her on the sofa and took her hand in his. "I'm so sorry, Mary," He said vehemently. "I never wanted you to think that you're not an important part of our lives. It was a shock for me to hear all of that. I wasn't ready for it, and I took it out on you. I'm grateful that Sybbie can come to you. I know she couldn't love you more if you _were_ her mother." Mary battled with emotion for a moment as the ice thawed in her chest. "Thank you. I suppose I should have at least told you what I was up to," she admitted. "I'm sorry too." He squeezed her hand but didn't let go, and they lapsed into a companionable silence. She relished the comfort of being tucked up next to the fire with Tom while the storm raged outside. She hadn't realized how lonely she'd been.

"What happened with Henry?" He asked again, eventually. Mary drew her hand away under the guise of topping up their drinks. She owed it to him to tell the truth - after all, it involved him, but suddenly everything her aunt had said that afternoon came rushing back and she couldn't look him in the face. "Truth be told... you. He's jealous of our relationship."

"Ah." The utter lack of surprise in his voice had her forgetting her embarrassment to look at him sharply. Tom seemed resigned by her revelation, and perhaps a little annoyed. "I thought we'd settled this." Mary's stomach dropped. "What? What do you mean? Has Henry said something to you?" Tom grimaced slightly. "Once or twice," he admitted. "I thought I'd set him straight years ago but we had a serious disagreement a few weeks ago."

Mary was at a loss for words, completely mortified. This had been going on for _years_? "What did he say?" She demanded when she found her voice again. Tom sighed, shifting uncomfortably. "You can imagine. Just insinuations about you and I. He was angry."

"And what did you say?"

"What do you think? I told him the truth - that he was being ridiculous; that you and I are close because we're family and we run the estate together."

"Exactly what I said." Mary could hardly believe what she was hearing. Her ire at Henry mounted as she imagined the exchange that had occurred between the two of them. She wanted to take Tom's hand again to reassure him, to convey her regret that he'd been dragged into the middle of her tumultuous marriage, but she reconsidered in light of their current dilemma. "I am so sorry about all of this. Henry is being completely unreasonable." Tom surprised her by shaking his head. "I don't think that's fair. He'd be a fool to not worry about losing you."

Mary felt a pang in her stomach that left her flustered. She reached for her drink in an attempt to process the odd feeling. "That's kind of you to say, but at this point Henry might disagree with you." She tried for flippant but came off sullen. He looked troubled and downed his own drink in a mouthful. Then his face cleared and he was back to his usual affable self, though his smile didn't quite reach his eyes. "You know that's not true. He'll come around." Mary didn't know what to say. His reaction had unsettled her, stirring up emotions she couldn't identify. She grasped for something to fill the silence. "This hasn't affected your partnership, has it?"

"The garage doesn't need much hands-on attention these days. It practically runs itself."

"That doesn't answer my question and you know it."

He smiled ruefully and shrugged, and Mary decided to let it drop. She didn't want to add to the odd tension between them. "Sounds like you might need a new hobby then," she ventured lightly.

"It just means I have more time to dedicate to the estate."

"And we need all hands on deck to save this sinking ship," she mumbled into her glass. It was almost refreshing to transfer her anxiety back on to the estate. The gin was beginning to taste bitter and she grimaced. Tom frowned and eyed the gin bottle. "How much of this have you had?" Mary squinted at the bottle on the table, which had been full when she'd started. There wasn't much left. "What does it matter?"

"Well, you're not usually so -"

"Honest?"

"Cynical, I was going to say."

Mary shrugged. "What is there to be optimistic about? I've driven my husband away, my children barely tolerate me, and I am on the verge of losing my home." Tom pried the glass from her fingers and put it out of reach. "Enough of that. George and Robbie are only behaving as all young men do. The estate has a long way to go before we're out on the street, and as for Henry..." He trailed off. Mary was struck, probably for the first time, with the reality of what an awkward position Tom was in. She so desperately needed someone to confide in and he clearly wanted to be that person, yet the advice she needed was about _him_. She knew it was extremely unfair to keep dragging him into her marriage, but she couldn't stop herself. "What should I do?" She implored. He looked deeply regretful. "I can't tell you what to do about Henry."

"Why not?"

"Because I'm biased."

 _Oh_. But of course Tom only wanted what was best for her, the same that she would want for him. Mary sighed. "I appreciate that you want me to be happy but I wish you would tell me what you think. Anything would be better than my aunt's advice. She thinks I should beg Henry's forgiveness."

"And that's not your style."

"Well my style hasn't worked so far, has it?"

"That's more Henry's problem than yours, I'd say."

Mary was surprised. Tom was usually the diplomat who tried to give everyone's perspective equal footing. She could see the tension and restraint on his face and wondered what he wasn't saying, but was nevertheless pleased to hear him defending her position. " _Thank_ you. I think he's being very childish. It's not as if I've done anything wrong, besides being inconsiderate."

"Well, clearly this has been bothering him for a long time," Tom conceded, the diplomat once again. "I can imagine how that feels." Unease curled in Mary's stomach. "Do you think Rosamund's right? Should I just give in?"

"No."

"So you agree that Henry's overreacting?"

Tom started to say something, then hesitated. "No," he said again. "But I think that it really isn't my place to tell you how to handle your marriage, Mary. Please don't ask me to."

"I-" Mary didn't know what to say. This conversation had taken on a life of its own, crossing a line that she hadn't realized existed between herself and Tom. Discomfort prickled down her back and she decided to put a pin in things before they got any more intimate. "Right you are. I'm sorry, that was unfair of me. I think I should probably call it a night," she said, but when she got to her feet, all the gin she'd drunk hit her like a ton of bricks. The room tilted and she flung an arm out to steady herself. "Oh…damn." Tom was on his feet in an instant to steady her. "Are you alright?"

"I'm fine," she insisted and shook his hand off her arm. She took a moment to regain her balance and muster her dignity. Tom didn't touch her again but stayed close by her side. "I'll walk you up," he insisted over her protestations. As she focused on carving a straight line from the library to her room, Mary did what she could to avoid replaying their conversation in her mind. "How was your dinner with Miss Delaney?" she asked abruptly. Tom frowned, as if he'd forgotten all about it. "Fine, thank you. Why do you ask?" Her door was in sight and she had the overwhelming need to lock herself in, alone. "Because you smell of her perfume," she said quietly, as though someone might overhear. His mouth fell open slightly, but before he could speak she smiled and kissed his cheek. "Thank you for putting up with me."

"Mary-"

"Good night," she said firmly, and all but closed the door in his face. Her stomach heaved and she only just made it to the loo in time. As she rested her cheek on the cool porcelain she realized she'd never felt more confused in her life.


End file.
